Seeing Red

My hair is naturally the most mundane shade of brown. And recently I've started to get these few strands of super glisteny grays in the front. That's why I color my hair. I've always stuck to semi-permanent color. You know, all of the fun and no committment. But the problem is, semi-permanent color in semi-boring brown only semi-covers those grays for about 2 weeks. Then they reappear with all of their cocky glisteningness. And I swear they get even cockier everytime I color. So today is the day I go red. Permanently. Yes, permanently.



I'm not a salon girl. I'm more of a do it yourself girl. So I do like any diyg and go to the store to find the perfect box of red. How does one choose the perfect shade under the fluorescent store lights? I really wish it was a logical and scientific process, but it's not. Every woman who has ever colored her hair from a box knows that what sells us hair color is the model on the box. I choose the model who has my dream hair. And this means, straight (which my hair is not), thick (which my hair is also not) and usually with bangs (which would hide my forehead wrinkles beautifully). Because obviously this magical box of haircolor is going to transform me into the woman on the box. Now I am an educated, rational (ok, semi-rational) 41 year old woman. Why do I think this?



Before inventory photo:

Thin stringy strangely curly, mostly frizzy hair but mostly healthy hair.
Mousy brown locks.
Long face.
Forehead wrinkles.
Dark circles under eyes.
Pasty white skin.
Psycho I-will-look-like-chick-on-box-when-I'm-done look.




I empty the contents of the box and open the instructions excited for my transformation to begin. Damn, I can't read the instructions. I find my reading glasses. Damn, I still can't read the directions. Because no matter how powerful your reading glasses are, they won't help you read Arabic. At least there's pictures. And how hard can it be anyway?




So I get out the bottles, look at the cute little pictograms, put on the gloves and start piecing it together. Now in the states hair color comes with a weird bottle that looks like you use it for an enema. No enema applicator here. The heiroglyphics clearly indicate using a dish and a hair color brush, which aren't included in the box. Now you know I'm not going to wait for another day to go get a hair coloring brush right? There must be something in the house I can use instead. Bingo. One plastic that has no matching lid and one plastic disposable fork.



I plop the runny goo in with the colored gloopy goo and it kinds looks like our cats litter box. If our cats litter box was filled with potent chemicals that could kill you if you are in an unventilated room. Ok, so it's exactly like a litter box.




Now I don't know if you've ever applied hair coloring with a plastic fork before, but it doesn't really work. Like not at all. So I scoop up oozing handfuls and drip it on top of my head and try to work it through with my plastic gloved hands. Then I pile the hair on top of my head and finally figure out the perfect use of the fork....hair ornament. I think I may have been high on hair color fumes at this point. Twenty minutes later and it's time to rinse.



I strip down and jump in the shower and the weirdest thing happened. There was blood everywhere. It was like the Psycho shower scene. It wouldn't stop and kept running down the drain. Oh, that's just the hair coloring. I'm definitely high now. In what is a very Alice in Wonderland moment, I condition with the world's smallest packet of conditioner which was included in the box. I'm not sure if I got bigger or the conditioner shrunk. Or did I hallucinate that part?



After inventory photo:

Thin stringy strangely curly, but mostly frizzy hair and now fried dry hair.
Strangely uneven barely red colored hair.
Long face.
Forehead wrinkles.
Dark circles under eyes.
Pasty white skin.
Ponderingly pissed look.

That's it, now I really am seeing red. I'm pissed. I look NOTHING like the chick on the box! And Oh my god, I'm never going to look like the chick on the box! Cause magic doesn't come in a box. Magic comes in a syringe of course. Duh.

(Disclaimer: I was not in any way compensated by Botox. Nor have I ever used Botox because if I did I wouldn't have these stupid forehead wrinkles. Nor do I condone the use of Botox because I'm pretty sure I'm still not going to look like the chick on the box. At least I don't think so...)